


give a little, get a lot

by bendingwind



Category: Marvel
Genre: F/F, Femslash February, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 06:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingwind/pseuds/bendingwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha wakes up with an itch beneath her skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	give a little, get a lot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sabinelagrande](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/gifts).



> The problem with writing for extremely talented authors is that it is NERVE-WRACKING AS FUCK. sabineyoubetterlikethis.
> 
> Sabine requested: I'm gonna need you to write some Natasha/Maria sparring.

Natasha wakes up with an itch beneath her skin.

It’s a familiar itch, born of too many years of watching and fighting and running, and a mind that will always be just a little broken. She keeps her shower cool and her breakfast light, just some fruit she hydrates and chills. She dresses in civilian clothes but slips her favorite sweats and an old shirt into her go-bag, and she heads out to a little place she knows that will cater to her needs.

The angry-looking secretary at the front desk barely glances up as she collects Natasha’s money and slides her a tarnished key. Natasha offers her a brittle smile that she doesn’t look up to see, takes the key, and passes through the door to the left. She opens one of the lockers and strips with quiet efficiency, trading out casual civilian clothing for something more appropriate. The sweats are old and not especially attractive, and the shirt has a hole in the lower back, but she’s not here to look pretty. The grappling gloves in the bottom of her bag and the weighted tennis shoes, however, are expensive and well-kept, and she pulls them on with something like reverence, savoring the rough slide of mesh over her skin.

She ties her hair up in a ponytail and walks through the doors on the other side of the locker room. 

The soft murmur of voices and the pounding of flesh hitting flesh soothe her the moment she enters the room. It’s early in the day, and nearly half of the rings are empty. Across the room, a man catches her eye and tilts his head in challenge. Natasha lets a small, pleased smile curl up her lips, and nods. They meet in one of the rings to the side, and the small crowd of observers is too caught up in another fight to follow.

“Come here often?” the man asks, his grin morphing into something predatory and possessive. 

“Occasionally,” Natasha says, keeping her voice light and even. “I might be a bit out of practice.”

“I’d be happy to warm you up,” the man says, and the schmuck _actually waggles his eyebrows_.

Just for that, Natasha doesn’t even bother with a little polite foreplay before she dumps him on his ass, dazed and confused.

She offers him a sweet smile as he staggers to his feet and out of the ring. This time, it takes her a moment to catch the eye of the lovely woman just climbing out of the ring one over from her. She offers her own grin this time, wide and challenging and predatory. 

The woman acquiesces with a polite inclination of her head. 

Natasha takes her time with this one, holds herself back, savors each strike she lands and each hit she allows the woman to take. There’s something delicious, something primal and fun and wonderful about the mix of pain and pleasure and adrenaline buzzing along her nerves that makes her grin wider and prouder and better. 

Nothing else in the world quite matches this feeling.

She finally strikes a blow to the woman’s chin that leaves her staggering and swearing.

“I give,” she gasps, hands on her knees and swaying slightly as she gasps for breath. Something in Natasha clenches tight with pleasure. 

“Natalie,” she says, holding out a hand for the woman to shake. 

“Jess,” the woman says, reaching up a hand. “Nice fight, but let’s not do it again too soon.”

She looks up long enough to offer Natasha a wry grin, and climbs out of the ring. They’ve attracted a small crowd of onlookers; Natasha isn’t short a sparring partner after that. First she takes down another woman, less beautiful and less talented, and then a man who at least respects her enough not to make a pass. The man after him pulls his punches, and Natasha sends him flying out of the ring with a smug little smirk and a salute.

It’s early afternoon before she hears the familiar voice drawl, “You’re late for work, Agent,” from behind her. She twists the arm of a older ex-cop who teaches self-defense classes here on the weekend and sends him crashing to the mat. He exits the ring with a sheepish smile and a cricked neck, and Natasha turns to face Maria with an innocent smile.

“I thought I had the day off,” she says, in a voice that she knows is too carefully surprised to fool Maria for a second.

Maria’s indelicate snort is proof enough that Natasha is right.

“You enjoy being better than them way too much,” she says, looking over at the crowd of enthusiasts slowly wandering away towards more interesting fights.

Natasha shrugs. “Are you implying that there’s someone better than me elsewhere?” she asks, sickly-sweet, and Maria’s answering grin is sharp and wicked.

“Damn straight.”

“Come here and prove it,” Natasha says, with a grin to match. Maria shrugs off her leather jacket and obliges, sliding into the ring gracefully and in just such a way that Natasha gets a little distracted by the curve of her neck. 

Maria doesn’t wait for her to pull it together. She’s on Natasha in a second, sliding through every opening to land a punch here and a kick there. It takes a moment for Natasha to adjust herself and stop holding out, but then she’s landing a solid half of her blows. The solid thud-thud-thud of a good, fast spar pounds in her ears and in her veins. She savors the warmth of Maria’s flesh where she can land lasting blows.

She wonders, idly, whether she can pass off a kiss to the cheek as an aborted headbutt while Maria dodges a solid kick. And she must be getting distracted again, because Maria manages to wipe her feet out from under her, and she crashes to the floor rather than rolling. Then again, maybe it’s just her subconscious acting up, because almost immediately Maria is straddling her like in all her _best_ fantasies. 

“Yield?” Maria asks, tilting her head and smiling invitingly. 

Natasha smirks and flips their positions with a practiced twist of hips and leg. Maria lets out a shallow, gasping breath and immediately tries to turn the tables again, but Natasha holds her firmly in place. If she’s moving a little bit more than is necessary, grinding into Maria, well--Maria doesn’t complain. Natasha loves this, the feeling of power and safety and control that comes from straddling a beautiful woman and holding her down against a mat, knowing that she could kill her in a heartbeat, knowing that she won’t.

“You’re in a mood,” Maria says, when another attempt at wiggling out from under Natasha fails and Natasha still does not offer her the option to yield.

“Yes,” Natasha says, smiling with all her teeth. She presses Maria into the mat a little be harder, grips her a little more roughly, and Maria sighs and shifts up against her.

“I yield,” Maria says, “Go another round?” And Natasha is off her in an instant, because if there’s one thing better than grinding Maria into the ground, it’s wiping her out on the mat.

“No holds this time?” Maria asks, and _god,_ Natasha appreciates this woman above all others.

Natasha goes straight for the hair, because hair that silky and smooth is _meant_ to be pulled.

Maria grunts as her head tilts back, but it’s easy enough for her to twist out of Natasha’s grasp and bring an elbow down, hard, on Natasha’s arm, forcing her to release her grip on Maria’s hair. 

They’re attracting a crowd again, but Natasha doesn’t mind so much. Far be it from her to deny them the chance to watch Maria in action. And Maria in action is glorious, especially since the first spar seems to have warmed her up; she glides through well-practiced motions like oil on skin, slips past Natasha’s strikes and ignores Natasha’s feints. Time passes, minutes upon minutes upon minutes, stacking on top of each other like the most delicious weight of anticipation. Slowly their audience drifts away again, bored because no one is winning.

Natasha loves this, she loves this more than words can say, her body and Maria’s body in perfect rhythm, blood pounding through their veins, blood, fists and bone.

She’s breathing hard when Maria missteps, staggers a little, and Natasha is there, tripping her and pinning her to the mat yet again.

“Fury will wonder if we’ve eloped,” Maria says, but the smoothness of her words is marred by her gasping breaths. Natasha watches the rise and fall of her chest, absurdly mesmerized. 

“Let him wonder,” she murmurs, as her eyes travel up the line of Maria’s throat to rest on her lips. They’re not as full or as pink as they are in Natasha’s dreams, but the words that fall from them are even better.

“Natasha,” Maria says, and it’s somewhere between a laugh and an exasperated sigh.

Natasha shifts and considers for a minute. She knows Maria really will get, at the very least, a stern talking-to if they don’t report back to headquarters soon. And the itch beneath her skin, the one that drives her here time and time again, has faded to a faint hum. 

“Another quick round?” Natasha asks, lifting some of her weight off of Maria. Maria grins, and flips her.

“Sure,” Maria says, and she leans down to whisper into Natasha’s ear, “Do you yield, Agent?”

Natasha laughs, high and loud, and she knows that that probably attracts some attention but she can’t bring herself to care. 

“It’s yours,” she says, and if she flicks her tongue against Maria’s ear a little, well. It could have been an accident.

Maria rolls off her and to her feet, but doesn’t offer Natasha a hand up. Natasha smiles, pleased that Maria knows better, and pulls herself up to join her.

“We should do this more often,” she says conversationally, as they climb out of the ring.

Maria’s answering hum doesn’t sound like disagreement.


End file.
